Who Would Take Up With a Ranger?
by Dagorloth
Summary: Short Story. There is a man asking questions after four hobbits of Barliman Butterbur...


**WHO WOULD TAKE UP WITH A RANGER?**  
><strong>By: <strong>Rai  
><strong>Rated: <strong>PG

**Author's Note: **This doesn't follow the general vernacular or style of writing, not even the tone in which most _Tales from the Hall of Fire _are written. But it is canon and based on a canon event that we did not see, only had word of.  
>This really is a humourous writing exercise that draws upon the frustrating task of dealing with people that have already decided for themselves what kind of person you are to them. I'm sure all of you have encountered one of those in your life. And I'm sure you yourself are often equally as guilty of doing the same as well. So it is for all of us guilty of and victim to such crimes of prejudice I write this.<br>**Spoilers:** You are expected to have read at least up to the end of Chapter 8 of _Fellowship of the Rings_ to understand this story, or watched the movie.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I am not owner nor the creator nor the writer of _The Lord of the Rings_ and its coinciding universe. I am not soliciting money from this venture as I am doing this for pure personal enjoyment. Any canonical and grammatical errors are my own and as I do not have a beta for my writing, I ask only for the mistakes to be forgivable.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> There is a man asking questions after four hobbits of Barliman Butterbur...

* * *

><p>The scowl that graced the innkeeper Barliman Butterbur's face upon noticing the stranger's arrival at the Inn of the Prancing Pony was unmistakeable. It was a look reserved for only the most distrustful looking of his patrons; those dark characters of questionable morality and an even more questionable profession. Not that he questioned or asked after those unsavoury types. For the sake of his livelihood, the man had learned to accept all those seeking his services, provided that they caused him no direct trouble of any sorts. But though he did not question, he continued to judge, and there was never mistaking the impression he had of this latest guest that had entered into his small, rustic inn within the northern town of Bree.<p>

To those that cared to look upon this stranger, he seemed to them a dark man, both due to his subdued attired as well as from the dirt that had come from many nights in the forests and fields around Bree. His boots were covered in mud, tracking dirt across the floor, and the clothes that he had on his back were torn, worn and rough. And though it was a warm night tonight in Bree, he was wrapped in a long dark cloak, under which he undoubtedly hid a weapon, thought the innkeeper warily.

But most striking was the way in which he kept his hood up over his head, hiding the dreadful mop of hair that comes with failing to bathe while traipsing about in dark and dirty places. But more than that, it also cast a dark shadow over his eyes and face so that none could see it clearly in the already dim light of the inn at night.

The man had a pipe in his mouth and little else, and one could smell the Shire-farmed tobacco which he smoked. But for that, he had little else with him and little else in which to identify him. A truly mysterious and yet threatening sort of individual, for he had an air of danger and warning about him. And it was that in which made Barliman Butterbur regard him even more animosity.

He knew this man. In fact, they had both long known each other over the years. But there was little fondness in the acquaintance, if there was any love to be said between them at all. For while Butterbur regarded the man as little better than one of those brigand scoundrels that would occasionally harass travellers in and around Bree, the man for his part saw Butterbur as little more than a bumbling country simpleton of little intelligible worth in return. This was in part because of how quickly Butterbur was to judge him and so speak and treat him thusly, a matter of opinion that dripped with not just a little irony in the man's mind for just how little this innkeeper knew of the greater world beyond his supposedly safe little boundaries within the town of Bree.

Under most normal circumstances, the one and the other would greet each other cordially, clear up any present needs before respectfully staying out of the other's way. But this day in particular was far from a normal day for either man.

And for this new and most unwelcomed man in particular, he saw little in which that could have been done otherwise. He had urgent business to attend to that had waited much too long and could not be delayed any longer.

And so it was that the man swiftly interrupted such pleasantries in which the innkeeper was babbling on about to him for no discernable reason in order to ask: "By any chance, did four hobbits happen to visit upon your inn and ask for lodging for themselves and their steeds on this night?"

Butterbur blinked at the unexpected interruption, his eyes narrowing slightly. "To what importance is such an inquiry as that? I get guests quite often in these parts, more than you think I am sure, but it does happen, I can assure you. And today in particular is a most unusually busy day in which to be certain. As I was saying, there was a party that came up the Greenway..."

"I care not for such pleasantries or explanations, Barliman, only an answer to my question," said the man in a calm and level voice, though the burning tobacco in his pipe flared suddenly to illuminate eyes that were neither calm nor friendly-looking. "Did four hobbits happen to visit upon your inn and ask for lodging tonight?"

A sweat broke out on the face of the innkeeper. "And what if one such group did?" said the innkeeper bluntly. "With such a crowd going on tonight, such things could have gone unnoticed for all I am aware of. Along with the party from the Greenway, we've had some dwarves..."

"Barliman, do not humour me," said the man with a grin that showed his teeth as he continued to suck on his pipe. "We both know that little goes unnoticed by you when it comes to the comings and goings of your establishment. The issue here is whether you care to remember such details later on. But you still have not answered my question. Let me give you a hint. One of them may be going by the name of Underhill."

The innkeeper frowned, staring hard at the man before him before finally relinquishing, "Ah yes, I did get a group of four hobbits. They came in only moments before you graced my inn with your presence."

"Excellent! Now was that so difficult, my good innkeeper?" cried the man with a triumphant smile. "Regardless, it is good to know that they are at least capable of making it thusly to your inn without incident. And you are certain they are from the Shire."

"They could be from the moon for all that I know," said the innkeeper with a shrug. "But they dress and talk like Shire-folk so I would guess it so. It is strange as it has been a long time since I have seen hobbits from those such parts. Why it must have been a full..."

"Have they told you anything of where they have been and where they are going?" interrupted the stranger once more, with urgency in his voice.

The innkeeper blinked. "Such questions! No they told me nothing of either, I think, at least not at the moment. I do not ask after such business as that, as it is really none of my concern. It reminds me of this one time, when..."

"And they told you nothing of why they are travelling," interceded the stranger once again.

"What is the meaning of this? No, they have not given me a reason!" cried Butterbur incredulously, staring at the man.

There was a pause before the man looked at Butterbur once more, asking: "Where are they now?"

"In their rooms getting comfortable with their accommodations," answered Barliman warily, eyeing the stranger.

"I would like to speak with them, if it pleases you."

Barliman sniffed as he began to turn away. "They should be out shortly once they had a bite or sup I would expect."

The man gave Butterbur a wearied look. "If it is of any consideration, this is a matter that cannot wait."

Barliman Butterbur, as if realizing what he was being told, stopped suddenly, as if some thought came together in his mind. The man's heart leaped somewhat, thinking that perhaps he may yet meet with these hobbits – particularly Mr. Underhill – ere long. But when the innkeeper turned to face him, he felt his heart sink and his irritation flare, for the look on Butterbur's face told the man that he had come to a most unpleasant conclusion as to what business he may have.

"What matter do you speak of if it may trouble me for asking?" said the innkeeper sharply.

"For all intents and purposes, Mr. Innkeeper, it is truly none of your business in which to inquire after," said the man testily.

"Then it is a matter that can wait for after they have their meal," concluded the innkeeper.

"That is not for you to decide," snapped the man irritably.

"They are my guests, and it is my duty to ensure that their stay is comfortable and if you would forgive me I have no guarantee that your unexpected visit would not be an unwelcomed disturbance in their visit here," replied the innkeeper. "Now if you could tell me some of the nature of your urgent business, I can pass such information along to them and if the issue is indeed a pressing matter have them send for you as soon as they please."

"The matter of this business is not something that can be passed along by any other than myself, if you may understand my situation," answered the man, whose voice was growing increasingly more agitated.

"Then such matters can wait," said the innkeeper with some finality.

"You are overstepping your bounds, Barliman," warned the man.

"Actually it is well within my bounds as I have told you!" snapped the innkeeper, his patience fading. "Now see here, Strider, I may not know for what reasons you may wish to see these fine hobbits and it may not be within my rights to know it, but regardless, they are my guests and it is my duty to see that they get fed and when they are ready and at their own convenience can they join and meet others in this common room. Now I can no longer sit here and talk uselessly to you as it is a busy night and I have patrons to feed and serve and unless you intend to become one of them, you may be so kind as to vacate the premises."

"Can you at least tell me the room in which they are to be accommodated in..." started Strider with a desperate plea but Barliman would hear no more of it.

"I will not, Strider, now ease off or I shall see to it that you are removed," snapped the innkeeper with such a ferocious look on his face that the ranger could only stare.

At last, Strider broke the silence between them by muttering: "A pint of your house brew."

"I will see that you get your order in due time, sir," snapped the innkeeper as he stalked away, leaving Strider standing there fuming.

A moment later, the ranger stalked off to find a table far from the hubbub of the bar, in a corner in the back. And the way he stalked, his stride violent and angry, had other patrons who dared stare up at him turn quickly away so as not to catch his notice. But even if they had, he paid them none, muttering only to himself as he flung himself down onto an empty chair next to an empty table, anger radiating from him. And it was well after his drink had arrived before he had calmed himself down enough to know that there was nothing to be done of it. Barliman Butterbur had long since deemed him a dangerous fellow, and while Strider was not about to deny himself as being a dangerous man, Barliman misrepresented his deeds to be of one of ill-will.

In the innkeeper's mind, much like the mind of most Bree-landers, who would want to take up with a Ranger?

A strange thing it would be indeed, to be a harbinger of ill-will to one whom helped protect him and his establishment, not to mention his patrons, from dangers unknown and otherwise for a little over fifteen years without his knowledge. For a man who knows everything in town, the fact he knew not of that made the whole situation even more hopeless.

There was nothing to be done of it now, only to hope that nothing ill occurs before he has a chance to speak with the hobbits when they finally make their appearances after their meals.

**THE END**

**Epilogue**

And as the cow jumped over the moon, and Mr. Underhill illustrating the point, Strider realized too late a gleam coming from the hand that was stuffed in his pocket. It was a supreme effort that kept him from leaping to his feet as the hobbit disappeared into thin air, and a greater effort still not to groan aloud or put a hand to his brow in frustration.

Of all the foolishness that could have come of tonight, that had to have been the worst and most dangerous to all fiascos to happen upon them.

And all he could think of as the scene in the inn grew to a hubbub over the bit of devilry that supposedly occurred before their eyes was: "That stupid, simpleton of an innkeeper!"


End file.
